Out of 32,300 web pages, Googleâ„¢ ranks my site #1 for the key words,
“Zimmerman Telegraph.”

Check it out here

I was impressed with my awesome web presence, but was saddened when I realized it’s spelled, “Zimmermann.”

On the other hand, Googleâ„¢ can only find 13,500 pages with the correct spelling.

I may have mispelled his name, but I’m still popular with mildly retarded fans of WWI who can’t spell either.

A few things I’ve absorbed from MySpace:

The number of “Friends” in a MySpace profile is a direct correlation to the number of hours logged on to the internet and inversely related to that person’s actual social skill.

The beacon enlightens me how unproductive we humans have become.

When my beacon is on, I feel like Frodo Baggins when he slips on his ring and he becomes visible to the Nazgûl , Wraiths of the Shadow World.

MySpace creator Tom must get laid every day.

The saddest MySpace moment is having an actual physical friend not accept you as a MySpace friend and you receive the message, “You already have a pending friend request for this person.”

To add insult to injury, you see that the motherfucker is and logs in and out everyday.

Friendster is the equivalent of a pager.

When people answer a question by saying,
“That’s a good question!”

SUBTEXT TRANSLATION:
“I have no fucking clue!”

New York City is by far the best city to live in as long as you never make a mistake. (ie forget to pay the meter, park in front of a fire hydrant, neglect a parking ticket, smoke indoors, run out of gas in a tunnel, drop/lose your cell phone, lose your unlimited MetroCard, etc…)
People here pride themselves by thinking of everything to avoid suffering the consequences.

When my hard drive died and wiped out all my critical data, I seeked comfort from my friends. My fellow New Yorkers pretended to empathize with my loss by saying,
“Oh my God, that’s horrible, but you backed up? Right?”

SUBTEXT TRANSLATION:
“If you didn’t back up, you’re retarded and deserve it.”

I could only imagine what they would think in a few decades when I tell them my child dies.

“Oh my God, that’s horrible, but you had Patrick’s DNA cloned when he was a baby? Right?”

Within 24 hours of Obi-Wan Kenobi's death, Death Star stormtroopers began to post “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. ~Yoda” on their Helmetbook© wall.

At my brother’s wedding in Texas, I was the only one without a digital camera. I felt like I was at a farmer’s market, watching everybody showing their produce. Shoot, pose, show…pose, shoot, show…show, shoot, pose. A monotonous Factory of Fun. The “Present” was slipping away, while everyone was peering into the “Past”. “Like sands through an hour glass, these are the Days of Our Lives”

Our lives have been digitally compartmentalized into emails, txt msgs, jpegs, mpegs, and who-gives-a-fuck-pegs.

I used to feel smart because I was the only one who could email an attachment. I was the chosen one. The Prodigy Son, who could decipher Microsoft’s hieroglyphics. When I enlightened them with the “Paper Clip Icon”, I immediately became a computer guru.
Now any jackass with hands and a heartbeat can operate a computer. However, their ignorance usually surfaces when they try to verbalize their tech knowledge.

Gigatytes!! What the hell are gigatytes?! The only thing tight is their pants that are holding in their mammoth hillbilly belly.

I wonder if laser light technicians are scared by jazzy PowerPoint presentations?

…I want to master digital necromancy. Who cares if you can Photoshop? I will be able to resurrect my dead computer into a zombie computer.

I am trying to design and launch my website before December and I’ve been glued to my laptop for the last two weeks learning Photoshop and GoLive.My eyes are strained, my back aches, and my mind is filled with bullshit information, that hinders my ability to talk with civilians in the physical world. PHP, MySQL, DHTML, FTP, rollovers, wizzywig, snuzzlefrumps, and gobblety-gook.

So sit tight, I’ll go back to my usual routine of daily entries in less than a fortnight.

I have recently been informed that my tentative Premium Blend air date will be in February.

At my brother’s wedding in Texas, I was the only one without a digital camera. I felt like I was at a farmer’s market, watching everybody showing their produce. Shoot, pose, show…pose, shoot, show…show, shoot, pose. A monotonous Factory of Fun. The “Present” was slipping away, while everyone was peering into the “Past”. “Like sands through an hour glass, these are the Days of Our Lives”

Our lives have been digitally compartmentalized into emails, txt msgs, jpegs, mpegs, and who-gives-a-fuck-pegs.

I used to feel smart because I was the only one who could email an attachment. I was the chosen one. The Prodigy Son, who could decipher Microsoft’s hieroglyphics. When I enlightened them with the “Paper Clip Icon”, I immediately became a computer guru.
Now any jackass with hands and a heartbeat can operate a computer. However, their ignorance usually surfaces when they try to verbalize their tech knowledge.

I vividly remember how proud I was when I stood up in front of my kindergarten class and recited my phone number.

A quarter of a century later, I can’t even remember the first three digits of my girlfriend cell phone number.

My attachment with my phone’s Phonebook is atomic.

This unhealthy relationship becomes crystal clear when someone calls me for a mutual friend’s number and I realize its in my all-knowing numerical lexicon.

I have to tell the caller to wait while I retrieve it.
Press “Menu“
then “Phonebook“
Scroll down to the name of the individual
Make sure I haven’t accidentally dropped the original caller
Remember as many numbers as possible and start reciting
Realize my short-memory allows only 3 numbers at a time
Become flustered when the caller didn’t hear the entire number
Repeat the sluggish process of calling out 3 numbers again

I hope Darwin’s Theory is wrong or we are truly fucked.

MoMA offers a free audio tour to “help” visitors understand what the artist is trying to express.

While helpful with some, you end up looking like a jackass to those brave souls who ventured forth sans audio guidance as you stare at an untitled canvas painted blue by Yves Klein for five minutes listening to a montage of monologues composed by various “experts”.

“Monochrome abstraction—the use of one color over an entire canvas—has been a strategy adopted by many painters wishing to challenge our expectations of what an image can and should represent. Klein likened monochrome painting to an “open window to freedom.” He worked with a chemist to develop his own particular brand of blue. Made from pure color pigment and a binding medium, he called it “International Klein Blue.” Klein adopted this hue as a means of evoking the immateriality and boundlessness that reflected his own peculiar utopian vision of the world.”

Yves Klein, Untitled blue monochrome, 1959.

I enjoy following kids and listening to their reactions to each piece they encounter. It’s in the same spirit of speed dating, they either “love it” or “hate it”. You will either hear, “Oooh…that’s cool!” or “Eeew…that’s crap!” What’s hilarious is that they are usually dead-on while being extremely economical with their word choice.

One room was entirely empty and the halogen lights overhead flickered on and off every ten seconds. Everyone stopped and soaked in the creativity. One couple had found a crumbled scrap of paper and were trying to decipher it’s meaning in the context of the barren room with faulty lighting. As I approached them, they realized it was just a piece of trash some inconsiderate visitor had dropped. They quickly vacated the room to avoid eye contact with me, knowing I knew they had just applied their art history knowledge to garbage.

I was tempted to stick my gum on the wall and attach the wrapper to it and wait for someone to unravel the meaning behind it.

I wouldn’t be shocked if I walked into an installation displaying a diorama of a middle-aged couple’s bedroom with two live models in coital activity with a group of tourist surrounding them holding their trusty audio guide to their ear.

I was updating my computer and at one point I needed to input my ‘IP Address’. I happened to be talking to my buddy who is a computer guru and asked him where I would find this information.

He caustically responded, “You don’t know your IP Address?”

What the fuck?

You should only know your IP Address if you are autistic or an uber-geek who gets wet dreams in Dreamweaver.

What exactly is a kWh?
According to Whatis.com, “kWh is a kilowatt-hour which is a unit of energy equivalent to one kilowatt of power expended for one hour of time” or simply power multiplied by time.

How much power is in a kW?
3,600,000 joules

(The equivalent of the amount of energy exerted by 45,000 Tanya Harding henchmen swinging 45,000 bats (80 joules per hitman)†)

What the hell is a joule?
One joule is defined as the amount of energy exerted when a force of one newton is applied over a displacement of one meter.

(One joule is the amount energy required to lift one apple (100 grams) exactly one meter on Earth)

Jesus Christ! What is a newton? Can you eat it?

No silly. One newton is the force required to cause a mass of one kilogram to accelerate at a rate of one meter per second squared. Think back to high school physics. Force equals mass times acceleration. Remember the dude that got hit on the head with the apple. That dude being the asshole who stole the title away from Leibniz as the “inventor of calculus”.

For fuck’s sake, what does this have to do with my electricity bill?
Everything. The utility company only charges seventeen cents a kilowatt-hour.



Not shabby, considering that a lightning strike generates about 250 kWh which would only cost $42.50 or a little less than two and a half hours of the average hourly wage for a U.S. citizen ($17.03).

So now when people rudely ask you how much you make, be vague and tell them you make enough money to make about eight hundred and thirty-three lightning strikes per year††.
(Hint: Your annual salary divided by your $42.50)

†17¢ seems so much cheaper than $450,000,000 ($10,000 per thug)
††This is the best way to be blown by a rocket scientist or a common nerd

Dealing with DELL was a dream come true. I finally found the secret code to speak directly to a human and circumnavigated the catacomb of automated voice-operated menus.

Growing up on NINTENDO, I developed an uncanny ability to discover backdoors into any game. My life changed, once I was enlightened with the capability to acquire 30 extra men on CONTRA by simply pressing :
5 5 6 6 3 4 3 4, B, A, SELECT , START… as the plane lands.

Here is the secret to DELL. When you are placed on hold for 20 to 40 minutes, start to chant, “I hate DELL, I love APPLE. I think Steve Jobs is doing a wonderful job, perhaps Michael Dell has become too successful and does NOT give a rat’s ass about his customers…I hate DELL, I love APPLE…(repeat…increase in volume for effect).

I did this three times, and I got a human within seconds of my third hate mantra.

Coincidence, I think not.

Please implement my strategy and leave a comment below with your personal experiences.

My ex-girlfriend called me and left an annoying voice mail.

Without thinking, I retaliated back by texting, “You define the word bitch” (SEND)

I make about 50 text messages a day with my T9 WORD software, so my thumbs punched out the word B-I-T-C-H by memory—2-4-8-2-4 (SEND)

The next day I felt bad about my shitty response so I called her back to apologize.

She immediately started to yell at me and I regretted I called but I told her I didn’t mean what I texted yesterday.

She calmed down when she realized I was calling to say, “I’m sorry.”

She then asked, “Do you really think I’m fat?”

And I said, “What are you talking about?”

“Your message said, “You define the word chubi…C-H-U-B-I”

“Oh no, the stupid T9 software screwed up my words, I don’t think you’re chubby, I think you’re a bitch.”

(click)

“Hello…hello…”